tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64539718025953614132024-03-13T04:18:00.872-07:00Memories of Stearns CountyGrowing up in Stearns County, Minnesota, and some life experiences.Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-8127106686002295152013-02-13T17:00:00.000-08:002014-03-19T12:46:20.768-07:00A List of My Blog Articles To Date<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2013/02/my-apprenticeship.html">My Apprenticeship</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/10/35-years-later.html">35 Years Later</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/4-point.html">4 Point</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/12/chat-with-pam.html">A Chat with Pam </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/05/drive-to-country.html">A Drive in the Country</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/arriving-in-portland.html">Arriving in Portland</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/aunty-would-you-be-proud.html">Aunty, Would You Be Proud? </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/10/bells-wood-and-8th-grade-engineering.html">Bells Wood and 8th Grade Engineering </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/brother-don.html">Brother Don </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/05/by-chance.html">By Chance</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/05/commercial-work.html">Commercial Work</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/05/custom-fabrication.html">Custom Fabrication</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/dearest-mona.html">Dearest Mona </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/03/flying-friendly-skies.html">Flying the Friendly Skies</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/grandpa.html">Grandpa</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/i-once-knew-woman.html">I Once Knew A Woman </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/in-mexico-we-kiss.html">In Mexico We Kiss </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/12/language-development.html">Language Development </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/medical-care.html">Medical Care </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/10/minnesota-english.html">Minnesota English </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/10/my-dad.html">My Dad </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/12/my-dad-stonecutter.html">My Dad the Stonecutter </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-friend-pete.html">My Friend Pete</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/my-mom-rose-gardener.html">My Mom the Rose Gardener </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/new-joseph-conrad-sampler.html">New Joseph Conrad Sampler </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/pauls-words.html">Paul's Words </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/05/remembering-rita.html">Remembering Rita</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/11/romney-report-june-2015.html">Romney Report - June 2015</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/07/sayings-i-remember-people-for.html">Sayings I Remember People For </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/12/sister-joan.html">Sister Joan </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/05/teen-years.html">Teen Years</a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/70s.html">The 70s </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/10/inspection.html">The Inspection </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/10/sliding-door.html">The Sliding Door </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/soo-line.html">The Soo Line </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/state-of-arts.html">The State of the Arts </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/times-are-changing.html">Times Are Changing </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/tom-and-joe.html">Tom and Joe </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/01/travel.html">Travel </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2012/02/trouble-in-budapest.html">Trouble in Budapest </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/11/what-would-jimi-sing.html">What Would Jimi Sing? </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/12/you-sure-are-wobbly-grandpa.html">You Sure Are Wobbly Grandpa </a><br />
<a href="http://growingupinminnesota.blogspot.com/2011/10/youre-safe-joseph.html">You're Safe, Joseph</a>
<br /><br />
<a href="http://cold-spring.minnesota.com/" title="Cold Spring Minnesota - Weather, Yellow Pages, Map & More"><img src="http://www.minnesota.com/minnesota.gif" style="height:15px;width:80px;border:0" alt="Cold Spring Minnesota - Weather, Yellow Pages, Map & More"></a>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-12845204133853975732013-02-13T14:21:00.002-08:002013-02-13T14:21:11.790-08:00My Apprenticeship<P>As a kid I suspect most children of the 40s and 50s generation were given household chores by their mother ranging from doing the dishes to hoeing weeds in the garden, or farm chores if you lived on a farm. I remember the first outside the family job, my brother Tom and I were hired by a man named Krebs to dig a foundation for a building at his lake side cottage. </P>
<P>I don’t remember getting much out of this other then income toward buying a Columbia deluxe bicycle from Sears & Roebuck which arrived by train, in a crate, at at great northern depot in town. </P>
<P>At 14 “Woosht” (Marlin Worstfield) asked me to clean the bowling pins in the six-lane bowling alley in the basement of St Boniface High School. I those days bowling pins were painted wood, which got quite beat up each season. Cleaning was done with steel wool and lacquer thinner. The vapors in the unvented back alley basement room were horrendous. Good thing as pending freshmen I had not started smoking yet. My friend Spitz told me 55 years latter that I came out of there in a daze, something, only he would remember. </P>
<P>Only lesson here gave me some insight on the nature of home town advantage in competition. In the 50s Bowling tournaments with prize money has held at all local bowling alleys in the early spring as the season was winding down. My dad won one year, seemed like big money, this was how the competition was rigged. Old beat up dried out pins like I cleaned were set out the weekend local bowlers played, new heavy plastic coated pins with good bottoms were set out the weekend neighboring town contestants bowled. A early lesson in competition, of course everyone knew. </P>
<P>Going into the freshman year at St Boniface High School I got my first big work opportunity, which when I think about it, eliminated all extra curricular activities of high school, like sports, or theater, or band etc. For the next 4 years. I had a job, which came first. At 3:30 right after school I went to the basement, I must have had a key to the bowling alley. In those days, bowling was communal drinking and smoking activity among friends, for both men and women. It helped get you through harsh Minnesota winter nights. Women didn’t need group therapy sessions to deal with there situation, they had women's league bowling nights, and men could compete twice a week. But it created a awful mess, the place reeked of spilled beer and dirty bathrooms, just as any tavern must be every morning.
After every school day then I started out by picking up beer bottles and putting them in empty’s cases, then I filled the cooler behind the bar with pop and beer. Next I wiped down the all the spectator and bowler seats with damp cloth. Then I sweep ed the place out, and mopped the floors. And cleaned the bathrooms. Next, the alley maintenance. The runways were cleaned of all dust, sometimes steel wool to remove any marks, with a special large mop, just for this purpose. After everything else was clean, a special continuous roller cloth the with of the alley was pushed up and down the alley. Then in stocking feet of course a hand pump spray of just the right amount of oil was applied, and moped in with same roller device. . This left a sparkling clean alley, which you could kind of smell as you first entered the bowling alley at 7 pm for the first shift at 7:15. </P>
<P>I then went home 2 blocks and ate supper, which in our house was always remnants of dinner mother served at noon in our German tradition. My brother Tom and I washed dishes and usually fought over who was to do what and I headed back to the bowling alley to spot pins, 7;15 to 9;30. I never spotted pins second shift 9:30 to 11:30, many guys did. We hated certain bowlers who threw the fast bowling ball since 3 pound wooden pins could hurt when they hit you. I could pick up 4 pins at a time big guys could handle 6 at at time, Most bowling balls were between 14 and16 pounds, which you handled around 100 times per single shift. </P>
<P>Not that it matters, but we got 7 cents a line per bowler, five bowlers three games, thirty-five times seven cents, paid one dollar and seventy five cents per two hour shift, for a single lane. Some guys could easily do two lanes at a time. I never did. Two lanes would pay two dollars and fifty cents per two hour shift. That would have been fifty cents a hour above then minimum wage at one dollar per hour. Two cents per line was held by Woosht to be given to pin spotters in the spring, at the end of bowling season, as a bonus if you did not quit Some guys would run up a charge account for cigarettes and candy and pop in case they got fired or quit to beat the two cent bonus rule. Sort of a company store plan back then. I loved it, bought my first car and insurance as junior in high school. '47 Plymouth with suicide doors in the rear. Like any dumb teenager I ruined it trying to be trendy. </P>
<P>More then any other memory of the bowling alley is the memory of walking home from from the bowling alley and seeing rabbits in the garden, on bright moon lit snow and the stillness of the night before snowmobiles, maybe the sound of crunching ice snow under the wheels of a car driving home somewhere. Snow seems to be a great peaceful dampener of sound which sticks in my memory. </P>
<P><B>GRADUATION AND A REAL JOB</B> </P>
<P>I left high school with a felling of failure. I passed geometry and physics quite well but failed chemistry and algebra, was a poor speller but a good reader. Seems to me to be a strange combination but I was glad it was over with. Father Vernon the vice principle agreed, and told me I would not amount to much as I left.
<P><B>THE BEGINNING OF MY APPRENTRICESHIP IN STONE WORK</B></P>
<P>I grew up in a central Minnesota town population of 2500 which was the home of the largest stone fabrication company in the world. This may seem strange to many readers. Blocks of granite from25 upper Midwest locations were shipped, mostly by rail, to be cut and fabricated for architectural projects all over the United States in this little town. The glaciers did the heavy work, removing the top soil uncovering many colored granite deposits. Variates of color helped provide a steady job source for this company. My father and his three brothers and my three brothers, and many other family members worked there in many different capacities. My dad made an appointment for me with Bob Tice, vice president in charge of engineering, where my two older brothers already worked. He hired me as an apprentice pattern maker, I am sure because of my dad and brothers. </P>
<P>In order to better understand what this job was, think about the next time you see a large urban plaza granite job with sweeping curves or complex shapes, or stone fountains, or slopping walls of stone. Each stone was fabricated to fit in a certain place, based on architectural drawing as interpreted by shop drawings and individual shop work tickets and zinc patterns for durability and accuracy in the fabrication process. I, like everyone else, started out in the office basement floor, it was great, minimum wage, and an opportunity to learn, 19 years old as a apprentice pattern maker. </P>
<P>Architects provide general information, site specific, for stone engineers to make shop drawings for stone fabrication, as per their general plans. These stone fabrication shop drawings were made by senior draftsman. And approved by the architectural design firm before fabrication was begun. Stone mill blocks could then be ordered from the quarry the correct sizes and quantities to produce the project. Apprentice draftsmen would make a individual shop ticket for each individual stone on the project to be sent to shop with fabrication instructions for that individual stone. If adequate information could not be put on the individual shop ticket a pattern was made for that stone. </P>
<P>This is how this was done, my first job in stone. I did this for one year. </P>
<P>In the office basement was a space, from my memory, about 40 by 50 smooth concrete floor. There was a large roll of very heavy paper about six feet wide. This paper was pulled out and taped to the floor to make area large enough, to draw out the project full size. Then with the aid straight edges, snap lines, long sticks and points to swing arks, hundreds of pre-made zinc radius templates and other aids, a drawing was made with 6 h pencils, in stocking feet for clean lines. As a example a plan view, of a given radius on a curved wall with given end points defined by architectural drawings, could be lay ed out full size, so equal individual stone pieces could be arrived at. Granted all of this can be done mathematically with the help of logarithms etc. But full size patterns are needed for shop fabrication nevertheless. Full size layouts help to eliminate errors, and often provide a visualization that is hard to in vision mathematically (I wrote a article about this published in Stone World magazine in 1996). The process helps to see three dimensional forms developed from two dimensional drawings.</P>
<P>These full size layouts were inspected by a senior draftsmen and he would then tell you to proceed to the next step, making zinc patterns for the fabrication shop if he found no errors in your layout.</P>
<P>There was a pallet of zinc sheets about three feet by five feet that you placed over the paper layout, of the stone you were working on, and with a sharp scratch awl you scribed the shape of the future stone, the zinc was then bent to break on you line, edges filed, and felt pen ink piece numbered with all the specific information pertaining to that stone. This pattern went to the fabrication shop to be used in connection a shop ticket to fabricate the stone. That was pattern making. Of course I was also every draftsman’s errand boy as well to fetch whatever from the fabrication shop.</P>
<P>The next time you see a Notre Dame football game on TV, look at the large stone mural of Christ and his disciples on the campus profile, made up of many stone colors. I did not do much on this project, but it was all laid out with patterns on the office floor, the first year I was there, I remember fetching stone for a couple of weeks when the project was being cut and cast in panels to be assembled on site. </P>
<P>After one year of working there, it was my turn to go on active duty in the US Navy for two years, were I served one year on a Island and one year on a troop transport hauling American troops to SE Asia and back, 12 pacific crossing in one year, we rarely stopped. </P>
<P>This was my introduction to the stone industry. As stated Cold Spring was the largest stone company in the world, may be 1500 people at that time, so there were many opportunities to learn many trades or professions there. By spending much time running errands in the fabrication shop I could see many aspects of how high production architectural fabrication was done. </P>
<P>I learned how to read shop drawings and was introduced to general drawings which served me well all my life. </P>
<P>I was taught to be precise and neat, which is fundamental to stone work were the product is so unforgiving. And mistakes so costly. </P>
<P> And I got my foot in the door of the stone industry with maybe the best architectural stone company in the world. Few could argue that. </P>
<p>Posted December 4, 2012</p>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-47646912262651167332012-11-14T13:51:00.000-08:002012-11-14T13:53:42.836-08:00Romney Report - June 2015<br />
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Romney Report - June 2015</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(The Great Alaska Land
Sale)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
President Obama's secretary of commerce
Myth Romney’s office reported today that the Chinese consulate has
filed a formal complaint, indicating that that there is US government
support for former Alaska governor Sarah Pizzazz guerrilla troops,
slowing the Chinese efforts to harvest timber, oil and fish in the
SE Alaska wasteland. This was not expected when the land was sold to
China to reduce the government debt.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The great land sale, which was
conceived and formulated by America's best and brightest, a group of
young Wall Street land traders headed up by the great American land
developer Donald Rump was presented to the imperial government as a
simple land transaction after the government deadlock of 2013. The
consulate stated that the land was totally paid for, and the monies
put into Wall Street accounts, which were to accrue interest for the
American public at a faster rate then its debt ratio. It is not the
responsibility of the Chinese republic that this money can no longer
be found in the American economy. We have the deed, a deal is a deal.
The American Democratic Party is assumed to be the guilty party in
these subversive attacks on Chinese free enterprise. No one ever
thought they would have Sarah Pizzazz as an ecology advocate in her
repulsive behavior. She seems to have somehow aligned herself with
the American Indian nations who used to own 10 percent of Alaska's
finest properties. These same locations, long known by indigenous
peoples to be the best of Alaska land mass, seem to be the source of
the most guerrilla activity. Clearing of the forest and deep drilling
for the oil has been a top priority of the imperial government as
well as harvesting of the abundant protein supplies to to improve the
food supply of the under served Chinese people. This progress cannot
be hindered, and stepped up military action will be started
immediately, not withstanding Canadian protests of collateral
damage.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Remember it was generally agreed in the
land sale negotiations that a strong Chinese presence in SE Alaska
would meld right in with the large Chinese emigration to western
Canada since 1985. It seemed to be a perfect fit to the land brokers
in there New York offices. These people should be able to get along,
as the great American Rodney King once declared. After all, they all
look alike. Even the natives seem to have strong Asian
characteristics. There should have been few disturbances, although
difficulties were expected in the relocation of certain Alaskans.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The relocation process as labeled “160
for all” hearkened back to the past when the Government gave 160 acres of
land free to those early American patriots the Tea Party advocates so
much admired as rugged self-made individuals. The same railroad
family descendants have been awarded the contracts for transportation
in the southern Wyoming hill country, since their families still
control the best construction equipment for the job. Retired Wyoming
Senator Simpson fought successfully for the land relocation here, as
you will remember his famous statement regarding mail carriers
getting a hernia in Sun City whenever he proposed reforms to the
social security system. His shrewd proposal to give all public
employees in Alaska a home in Sun City and full early pension with
health benefits beyond Obamacare, won over any Democratic opposition
to the great Alaska land sale.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Besides the resistance fighters headed
up by gun toting Sarah as she fondly called, there have been
complaints among some long time Alaskans who have been relocated,
some saying they feel like they are being treated unfairly, even
though government precedent was established in the 1940s Japanese
relocation project. Republican scientific studies suggest that there
should be no complaints among these dissidents in that the
temperature in this region is on average 10 degrees warmer then they
had in Alaska. Complaints about water depletion in the great Nebraska
aquifer are benign lodged by the southern California swimming pool
association. There suggestion that deep drilling water wells in the
settlement area has depleted the water supply have been dismissed by
republican scientific studies, as unproven. This matter will be taken
up in some future congressional study.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some Democratic strategists are now
beginning to question President Obama's hands-off policy on this
project, when he appointed Myth Romney as Commerce Secretary, since
the president stated neither he, nor anyone he has ever known, had
been to Alaska, it seemed best to leave the matter to the Job
Creation experts. Non-interference has been the hallmark of his
second administration. The president will be attending the Asian
conference next month and is expected to comment on Japan and
Indonesian governments complaints regarding fishery depletion in the
region. They contend this problem is directly related to the 100-year
lease by the American government of the Mariana Islands to China for
processing Alaskan fish and refining oil, as well as treating
Alaskan timber with fire resistant chemicals before distributing to
the Chinese heartland. These matters are of growing concern to the
Democratic administration and will be reported on in future Romney
Reports.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It may be best to delete this report
after reading, to prevent future possible FBI investigations.</div>
Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-9717922675034001682012-07-11T13:39:00.001-07:002012-07-25T13:57:15.131-07:00SAYINGS I REMEMBER PEOPLE FORBe glad in the gladness of others - Shakespearean quote often used by by friend
<P>
The difference between a good job and a perfect job is a waste of time - a friend
<P>
I think I am going to scream - a friend
<P>
Oh well - a friend
<P>
For a price - a friend
<P>
NEEW! [NO!] - a friend
<P>
The difference between a professional and a amateur is that a professional spends the correct amount of time on each part of a project. - a friend
<P>
Never sell something you don’t have - a employer
<P>
Bodder you - father in law
<P>
Consider the source - growing up in Minnesota
<P>
The scrubs - 3rd and 4th high school football team members
<P>
A tip from the top - high school friend
<P>
Really! - 2011
<P>
Quality time - 1970s feminist expression for mothers who don’t have much time for their children
<P>
Bottle stone - last stone installed on a job
<P>
You betcha - growing up in Minnesota
<P>
Enabler - an expression used by people who dont want to be bothered by helping others in need
<P>
The burden -an expression used by employer to describe government regulations and taxes on his business.
<P>
Opportunity cost - a expression used by employer describing time spent with me.
<P>
Lucky to get it - a friend describing customers' stone projects after completion of each job.
<P>
Whata you have - downtown Freddy Brown asking if you want light or dark turkey sandwich.
<P>
Preferred customer - a friend describing attractive female customers.Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-31628651991139253052012-05-02T14:43:00.001-07:002012-05-02T14:43:35.791-07:00Remembering Rita<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rita the second wife, because she was
Catholic, in a Hindu world,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
visited Portland one summer to be near
her two sisters ,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
all Indian born and raised.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dark skin, dark eyes, soft to the hand
everywhere, with beautiful lips ,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
unique to her culture, uttered perfect
English.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We spent one summer, walking and
talking art,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
she showing me newspaper photos and
articles throughout the world,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
describing her Rocco, were she employed
a whole village,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
baking hand-formed pottery under the
soil.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I said Rita, You're in America,we have
turntables and electricity.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She answered me that she sold her
historic forms in</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Monterey California</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Las Vegas, Nevada and
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania because she
heard,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
it was the city of brotherly love.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On our last day together at Mt. Hood
she held up the ride on a slide,
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
because she didn’t want to go too
fast.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She then told me on the drive home,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
YOU AMERICANS HAVE SO MUCH ,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
BUT HAVE CREATED NOTHING, YOU
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
HAVE JUST TAKEN FROM THE REST OF THE
WORLD.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was shocked into silence, and later
asked her sister why.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She answered, it's not you Joe, she
always leaves angry,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
it never changes.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-91016563367736577492012-05-02T14:42:00.005-07:002012-05-02T14:42:53.534-07:00Commercial Work<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
One of the first projects my
18-year-old son worked on with me was a conference table, for a
commercial real estate sales office in downtown Portland. This was
done when cutting and finishing was done with handheld skill saws and
grinders. Shaping and detailing an unforgiving and reluctant stone
like granite was a real challenge back then. It was a slow and
difficult process to turn two raw slabs of granite into a matched
three-dimensional stone table.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We were both quite proud of our hard
work when we delivered it to the tenth floor of the commercial real
state office and installed it on a custom wooden base ready for us.
It all came together very well we thought.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Before we left the office, three
architects walked in, one stating, “What a handsome piece of
stone,” congratulating the other on his stone selection.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then a group of young commercial
salesmen came in, not noticing us, “HOW MANY APES DID IT TAKE TO
CARRY THAT UP HERE?” and laughed.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This was my son's introduction to
commercial stone fabrication. It's no wonder we all prefer to work
for private home owners who respect and appreciate good
craftsmanship.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-39334849514494220202012-05-02T14:42:00.002-07:002012-05-02T14:42:15.261-07:00Custom Fabrication<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After being turned down by two
neighborhood machine shops, I searched the large S.E. District for a
metal fab shop.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I found two of the three steel
fabrication shops recently closed their business. The third was a
large building with four lumbering overhead bridge cranes. There is a
sadness about such a cavernous tomb, that must have housed an
industrial powerhouse in a different world. I counted six bodies in
this dimly lit non-heated block-long building .</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The girls at the office welcomed me
with smiles and interest as I described my need for four U-shaped
metal forms, three inches long, made from ¼ stock.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After much excitement and duplication
of words they summoned the plant manager, whom I assumed was the
owner, who as he walked in smiled at me, looked at my drawing, and
said:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yes, we can do this for you. It
should cost 40 dollars, however, by the time we process the order,
track its process in the shop, receive and answer your phone calls
discussing its progress, and schedule you for pick up, it will cost
me 240 dollars. Incidentally we can make 20 of these for the same
price.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Pay 240 dollars now, and we will
call you when they are ready,” all virtually said in a minute or
less, and he walked back into the shop.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I said thank you and pulled out my Visa
card and the girls started to process the order.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I now have 16 extra pieces of metal
taking up room in my shop which I have no use for.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-19728409739667988722012-05-02T14:40:00.002-07:002012-05-02T14:40:27.754-07:00Teen Years<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I remember the awkward years when as a
parent, you try so hard, because you are so proud of your child,
having reached sufficient size to appear like a adult.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
However there response to your interest
in there lives is cold and passive.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Development experts say this is normal
and even a required part of breaking away to become their own person.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But it seems to me to be a cruel and
ugly response to years of nurturing.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
However</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If you are lucky and live long enough
it all comes back with much more then you gave.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
[sitting in Starbucks and watching a
mother dote over her disinterested teen ]</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-25623839830079657772012-05-02T14:39:00.003-07:002012-05-02T14:39:41.169-07:00By Chance<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By chance,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
only a telephone call away from
canceling the trip,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Elizabeth called, from the village,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
requesting me to come, despite my fear
of intruding.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By chance</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
we meet in a most unlikely place.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Me a pale Yankee, with no language
skills,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
in unfamiliar surroundings.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You a beautiful Latina, with social
graces,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
at home in the largest city in Mexico.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stopped your busy world to show me</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
another way of life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Mexico, three cultures, layered and
combined</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Producing</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
happy people, where living and enjoying
life every day is paramount</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By chance</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
meeting a juke box queen, living deep
in Mexico City,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
has changed my life in a direction that
pulls me south,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with greater understanding.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-43777963844637187912012-05-02T14:39:00.000-07:002012-05-02T14:39:02.217-07:00A Drive to the Country<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Setting out, myself at the wheel,
unschooled and illiterate of the sign posts, or Mexico City driving
patterns.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Elizabeth and Bob, the man who
understands computers, sitting in the rear.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Terry, sitting in a semi-reclined
position, the primary navigator.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Elizabeth, Terry’s life-long friend,
provided second opinions and hand signals from the rear seat.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Advice came from all directions,
including Bob, but primarily from Terry and Elizabeth, with their
Mexican habit for late and excited hand, foot, and vocal expressions,
as we navigated the city westward toward Morelia, the second city
established by Spain, 500 years earlier. The route was somewhat
uncertain due to road repairs and confusing signage.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As we traveled the Mexican landscape
laterally, with dramatic changes in altitude, there was no discussion
or observations concerning vegetation, topography, culture, or local
history included in the ride.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Stopping for fuel, I stayed with the
Honda, while the passengers streamed to the refreshment stand.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Four and one half hours later, arriving
at the lakeside village home, my request for tequila was questioned,
however I prevailed drinking until I was calmed to my surroundings
and joined my fellow travelers in the kitchen, for strawberries.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Driving back to the city the next day
with Terry, my eyes blurred from the night traffic dropping into the
Valley of Mexico, incoming freeways loaded with weekend traffic.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By accident we landed on a surface
street whose name I could not properly pronounce in Spanish, but
whose English meaning I fully understand. Insurgenta splits Mexico
City, East and West. I was chided for my pronunciation and challenged
regarding its meaning, however, it led me to south Mexico City,
Tapan, home of my navigator .
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I unloaded the car, Terry told me
she never drove back to the city at night, it was to hard, and went
on to explain to me that it seemed shellfish that I did all the
driving this weekend.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Needless to say, I said to myself that
I would never go near the wheel again, lest I should make her spill
the bucket of whole milk, she held with her feet to make special
candy with, or spill the strawberry basket we purchased in the fields
along the way, or scuff the trunk with some rocks I may have stopped
for, alongside the road.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The next day I was told that Bob, the
man who called me kind of handy to have around, was made sick by the
chicken soup I had prepared for breakfast the morning we traveled
west to the lake village. I thought it might have been to many of
those unwashed strawberries he was eating in the back seat, I don’t
know.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyway, I started packing my suitcase
to head north, to where my children were waiting to pick me up at the
airport.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-36351646017691989792012-03-28T14:56:00.004-07:002012-03-28T15:02:24.325-07:00Flying the Friendly Skies<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="text-align: center;">In 2001 a friend asked me to attend her wedding on an island in Croatia . It was just off Split on the Adriatic, the location were the first Christian Roman emperor Diocletian fled to avoid his death. The remits of his headquarters are still at the heart of Split, home of the sculptor Mestrovic. Lucky for me I had a friend Peter Andrusko, who spent his high school and and college living in then Yugoslavia, sent me to his Slavic travel agent. Split is often reached by ferry from Italy, however I wanted to spend some time in Vienna, and Budapest since I would be so close to my heritage. The travel agent arranged my whole trip and lodging except lodging in Dubrovnik, site of war bombing 10 years earlier, an international heritage city. Our host, the bride's father, had arranged for the wedding attendees to hydroplane down there for a few days, stopping at special historic islands on the way. Not having hotel reservations in Dubrovnik slightly concerned me but I hoped for the best. The itinerary was Portland to Washington DC, Washington DC to Vienna, Vienna to Split; a flight that only happened three times a week then. Later from Dubrovnik to Vienna, ferry or train to Budapest, and final flight to New York and Portland.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br />
My friend Mary Ann agreed to take me to
the airport at 600 am for my flight to DC I gave her my itinerary
given to me buy my travel agent. She accompanied me to United
airlines check-in counter. The clerk informed me that my flight to DC
would be two hours late. I told her that that would miss my
connection to Vienna. She replied: THAT'S NOT MY PROBLEM. She then
reached for her phone to answer a call and asked me to move aside for
the next customer. I reached over the counter and put my hand on her
phone, and asked for an alternative route, she said that’s not
possible. I demanded to see her supervisor and held my ground,
stopping the line. A women came out and told me again ITS NOT OUR
PROBLEM and looked at her computer and told me a United flight was
loading right now for Chicago and maybe I could get a flight from
Chicago to DC, no promises. I started running!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
When I got on the United flight to
Chicago I asked the flight attendant if she could place me near the
front so I could get right out to make a possible connection to DC.
She said ITS NOT MY PROBLEM, and I was given a middle seat in the
rear part of plane. I was somewhat beside myself wondering if I
would get to DC in time from Chicago. I was then informed that the
flight would be one hour late arriving in Chicago. I then knew I
didn't have a chance to be in Vienna on time for the flight to
Split. I used the phone provided on the seat back to ask Mary Ann to
contact the travel agent even though it was early in the morning in
Portland still. Her first reaction was “why not do it yourself?”
I explained it would be hard to spend much time contacting him from
the plane. She said she would try. We were on our glide path twenty
minutes out of Chicago when she called me back and said, get to the
international terminal, in Chicago, Lufthansa Air will be waiting for
you. What a treat, the best airline in the world, to Vienna with time
to spare. Never would I fly United with their ITS NOT MY PROBLEM
again. Nor would I advise anyone else to.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OrhVWCj8uAE/T3OFhKC7zVI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/Kz3Qqyqj33M/s1600/_IMG_0204.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OrhVWCj8uAE/T3OFhKC7zVI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/Kz3Qqyqj33M/s400/_IMG_0204.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bride arranging for me to have a room in Dubrovnik</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bs9eEF2arrk/T3OFiAir0TI/AAAAAAAAAOY/NoXB7thaPgA/s1600/_IMG_0205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bs9eEF2arrk/T3OFiAir0TI/AAAAAAAAAOY/NoXB7thaPgA/s400/_IMG_0205.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Croatian women selling fish at the market</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dw3orSVHSUg/T3OFnmtqXrI/AAAAAAAAAPA/x5g2QXS6lhk/s1600/_IMG_0228.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dw3orSVHSUg/T3OFnmtqXrI/AAAAAAAAAPA/x5g2QXS6lhk/s400/_IMG_0228.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The wedding party on the island of Brock<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eNQ7kRqashI/T3OFjKHeGNI/AAAAAAAAAOg/URybPpzE4_o/s1600/_IMG_0210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-eNQ7kRqashI/T3OFjKHeGNI/AAAAAAAAAOg/URybPpzE4_o/s400/_IMG_0210.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Stone building in Croatia</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nswBQiL5V0I/T3OFkWIOtnI/AAAAAAAAAOo/5UxX8A56i-Q/s1600/_IMG_0213.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nswBQiL5V0I/T3OFkWIOtnI/AAAAAAAAAOo/5UxX8A56i-Q/s400/_IMG_0213.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
St. Stephen's in Vienna</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5a6WOWmQlyU/T3OFlVLmF8I/AAAAAAAAAOw/NEOkHZmFmyU/s1600/_IMG_0218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5a6WOWmQlyU/T3OFlVLmF8I/AAAAAAAAAOw/NEOkHZmFmyU/s400/_IMG_0218.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
Fountain in Budapest</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n0zOJQdM7eg/T3OFmb8o3hI/AAAAAAAAAO4/T1ynLmOgFZ8/s1600/_IMG_0223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n0zOJQdM7eg/T3OFmb8o3hI/AAAAAAAAAO4/T1ynLmOgFZ8/s400/_IMG_0223.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
I arrived safely after that harrowing trip!</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Flying Mexicana from Mexico City to Portland
</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">What a treat</span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
The nicest thing that happened in
airline travel occurred on my last flight home from Mexico in spring
of 2009. I was living in a colonial village in south central Mexico
for four months, recovering from an accident that had me bedridden
for four months. I rented a home for twelve months thinking I would
spend six to eight months carving stone there in retirement. The home
cost three hundred a month. I bought little Nissan pickup to get
supplies in. The cost of living seemed right, the weather divine. The
only thing lacking was telephone service, television, radio, the
internet, and friends. I did not speak the language, but did have one
friend living 40 miles away who was busy with his family life, and
Miguel, a multiple PHD, who kept a lake cabin in the village I lived
in. My doctor in Morelia noticed a dramatic weight loss and and
suggested that he thought I lived too far from medical help with my
heart condition. He advised me to leave the village I lived in. I
eventually dropped from 170 to 143 and was very weak more or less
bedridden for 10 days. I asked Miguel to make arrangements for me to
fly home, which he advised me to do. He visited me twice a day the
last week I was there arranging for a cab to take me to Morelia
airport approximately 60 miles away from there Mexicali to Mexico
City, Mexico city direct to Portland.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
As you know Mexico City is a large city
with a huge airport. It took me at least 45 minutes of walking from
my local terminal to the international terminal for the Portland
flight. When I finally got there I was saddened to see the terminal
was packed with little place to sit even. I was so damn weak, but I
asked for an aisle seat in case I needed to move about or use the
toilet. I was told the plane was full and I had a center seat. I knew
then the flight home was going to be hard for me. My daughter would
be waiting for me at the Portland International terminal and I had an
appointment with my doctor the next day both to look forward to.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
As I passed the loading desk to board
the plane the clerk reached over and gave me a ticket and said I got
you an aisle seat. When I got on the plane I was astonished to be
seated first class aisle seat. There was a young girl I thought she
was about 15 but she told me she was a 20-year-old college student
and she was going to Portland with her mother the stewardess on her
last flight before retiring to do some shopping and sightseeing. We
had a nice chat and her mother invited me up to the front of the
cabin for some cake and ice cream with the crew on the flight. I left
some places to see in Portland and my phone home phone number with
her mother. It was such a wonderful time that I started to feel
better on the way home. I was to sick to get around for the next few
days and sadly did not answer the phone when they called me to thank
me for the advice I gave them and missed my chance once again to
thank a woman who helped me so much in travel. I think I still have
the message.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Its a huge stretch of the imagination,
but I later thought about a beautiful young woman I met and spent an
evening with dancing and dinner, 35 years before who was an airline
stewardess out of Guadalajara . Later a friend of hers from Portland
told me that she asked about me at her wedding in Guadalajara. Could
it have been her? I wish there was a way to contact her, to thank
her, either way</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6YeYIohwKS0/T3OHfRA-CYI/AAAAAAAAAPI/jm8cS66aYdw/s1600/_DSCF2275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6YeYIohwKS0/T3OHfRA-CYI/AAAAAAAAAPI/jm8cS66aYdw/s400/_DSCF2275.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Zirahuen, Mexico</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bd_vbMQM5Fc/T3OHlQ6js4I/AAAAAAAAAPQ/AgrHG_rMXyY/s1600/_DSCF2360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bd_vbMQM5Fc/T3OHlQ6js4I/AAAAAAAAAPQ/AgrHG_rMXyY/s400/_DSCF2360.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children in Zirahuen celebrating the Catholic feast of music makers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMhorg7AqHU/T3OHp9WNPdI/AAAAAAAAAPY/5-8e3Dq3Jgw/s1600/_DSCF2409.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMhorg7AqHU/T3OHp9WNPdI/AAAAAAAAAPY/5-8e3Dq3Jgw/s400/_DSCF2409.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My friends Bob and Miguel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: left;">
Things Are different in Mexico at http://stonecutter.blogspot.com</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-11420838269295051272012-02-08T15:14:00.003-08:002012-02-08T15:18:14.414-08:00My Friend Pete<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> PETE</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My mentor was Italian whom I worked for when I was a college student. His name was Pete Rigutto, we call his nephew “Repete”.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Pete is long gone now.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Although Pete probably never went beyond high school, I believe he was the most intelligent man I have ever been around, in so many ways.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Pete began his training as a marble mason early, walking over the Dolomites to central Europe with his dad, slacking their own lime to use for mortar after World War One.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">During the Depression, living with his mother he raised pheasants, trapped salmon, and grew vegetables around their Portland home. He told me they would catch pheasants in a net trap they set up, I don’t know exactly how this worked. Salmon were plentiful in those days in S. E. creeks, later going to the Oregon coast salmon was abundant, as was deer meat, although many flat tires had to be repaired on every trip. He told me a little bar by my present home was the first stop on the way to the coast, it being a long way out of town, it now part of Portland city limits. The Tillicum.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Later as a young man, he made ends meet by having three jobs at once. Professional wrestler, cello player, and marble mason for his dad. When he asked his dad why he always had to do bathroom work on commercial jobs, his father told him that’s where people sit and have time to look closely at the work, and it has to be good.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As a college student working for Pete I asked him why he always knew more about the subject matter than me, he told me it was due to the fact that Italian was is first language, which gave him insight into technical terms and “I never got along with my wife so I spent a lot of time reading at my beach shack by myself.''</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Italian marble masons in those days didn’t bother much with what we call customer relations, so although he was a gentleman, he always put on a gruff face, to keep homeowners away and not peer over our shoulders as we did their marble work. A policy not practiced in todays' world, but still perfectly logical to me. Pete would tell you when he was finished with the job and didn’t invite silly questions by the customer. He was old school. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Pete had many expressions that solved most problems, if the customer questioned his work. His favorite being, “Can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear. As a helper who mixed the cement I hated to hear ''Never got enough until you got too much.''</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But Pete was at his best ad libbing uncomfortable situations. Once after working several weeks on a complex slate floor in a bank remodel all the ladies seemed to enjoy talking to Pete even though they seemed to get under his skin as they walked in and out every day. The bank president thought Pete layed the door entry at too steep an angle to the sidewalk, actully I did too but one never second guessed Pete. While we were redoing this entry ramp the women giggled and said you just got through doing that, Pete snarled back, “Women aren't the only ones who can change their mind.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">However I will never forget Pete's retort to a woman in Eastern Oregon who walked over the floor we worked on the previous day with a broom handle tapping the floor thinking she was checking for a good job. “WE JUST LAY THEM, MA'AM, WE DONT TUNE THEM.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When Pete's younger brother Fred and I get together – Fred no slouch himself – we never talk about Pete, its just to hard for both of us. </div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-71002036213869784862012-02-01T14:34:00.001-08:002012-02-01T14:34:40.922-08:00Trouble in Budapest<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I only got to Budapest, birthplace of my grandmother, Dad's mom, because of the kindness of a school teacher who was traveling from Vienna on the same train as I. When I told her I was going to Budapest, she rescued me by telling me I was on the wrong train, and going in the wrong direction.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">She took me off the train and accompanied me to a bus, which took us to the correct train, most of the time reading a book.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I believe I was so traumatized by the situation that I do not remember our conversation that September day in the year 2000.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Upon arriving in Budapest she took me to a cab station at the central Budapest train terminal, where I could get a ride to my downtown hotel.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">She then held my hands,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">looked me in the eyes</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">and said</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“IN THE CURRENT SITUTATION, BUDAPEST CAN BE A VERY DANGEROUS PLACE. DON'T SHOW YOUR MONEY AND BE CAREFUL.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">She then left to continue her trip.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When I got to the old hotel in downtown Pest, near the Danube, the clerk informed me that due to International Cart Races going on that week, my room was given to someone else. However, they had made arrangements for me to stay the first day, across the river in Buda.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was a modern structure with a tree-filled park across the street, where I enjoyed a fine evening of European big band pop music in a outdoor amphitheater. It was wonderful evening.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">On the fourth day of visiting Pest, I went to a Sunday evening church service to look at the cathedral, then slowly walked down one of the large avenues near the Danube. There were not many people around Sunday at twilight.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Suddenly, ten feet in front of me two very tall young women probably in their twenties appeared. One had lost her shoe, and they were laughing about it. In very good English they greeted me and we talked a bit. Looking at these Budapest girls I wondered how any man would leave there. They then suggested to me it was time for dinner and asked if I would like to join them. I DID.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The restaurant I remember was on a side street 90 degrees from the Danube, with a glass elevator going up to its entrance.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Not many customers – the cart races were over. We had dinner and some special drinks the girls introduced me to. After dinner and some dancing, one of the girls left to get her car, and the other asked me to meet her the following morning at a subway entrance at nine a.m. for some sightseeing.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When the waiter brought me the check, I couldn’t tell for sure the amount due to money exchange rates, but it looked like six hundred and twenty dollars American. I said no way and told him I only had one hundred and fifty dollars with me.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I soon had a man on each arm taking me down the glass elevator to the street, and dragged me to a ATM machine were they told me to take out six hundred and twenty dollars. It was a lot of bills I remember.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">They left.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I walked back to my hotel quickly, to plead my case . The desk attendants were very calm and polite as they explained to me, there is nothing that can be done, DUE TO THE CURRENT SITUTATION.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I thought about that</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">THE AUSTRIAN HAPSBERGS</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">THE PRUSSIAN KAISERS</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">THE GERMAN NAZIS</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">THE COMMUNIST RUSSIANS</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">AND NOW THE CURRENT SITUTATION</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It makes sense.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Footnote: I don’t know who was in power there, but it made me glad to live in a place where at least you can ask for help from the police. It also makes me think about the young women who went so far out of her way to help me and I lost her mail address which she gave me, and I NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO THANK HER.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-48397951821120084772012-01-11T15:22:00.000-08:002012-01-11T15:22:44.661-08:00The Soo Line<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sometimes things come back to me that are so distant, I don’t trust my mind. This is one of those distant, somewhat foggy, yet crystalline memories lodged deep within. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My parents Martha and Walter Conrad's home sat on a hill three blocks above the Soo railroad line cutting diagonally across Stearns County Minnesota. Seems I read someplace it was built to facilitate hauling grain from western Minnesota to the mills in St Paul, probably General Mills.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My sister Marion told me the conductor would stop the train one half-mile east of Rockville, five miles from our home in Cold Spring, to let us children off at my brother Wally's apartment when we went to visit him and his wife Irene. Of this I have no memory.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I do clearly remember going to the depot to pick up the big crate containing my balloon tire Columbia bicycle, red and white, complete with electric horn and headlight, sent for by my brother Tom and I, with money we earned delivering to St Paul Pioneer Press on Sunday mornings. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The Soo Line was vital to our small town life in the 40s and 50s.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But what I remember dimly and at the same time most clearly at the same time, deep within my mind, in bed on the second floor, snug and warm, covered with blankets, on a cold and crystalline Minnesota morning,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">WAS THE DEEP POWERFUL RUMBLE, the sound was overwhelming.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The Soo Line went from coal and steam to oil-powered diesel.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The power still lingers in the furthest depth on my memory.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2FZ5qfI8eeQ/Tw4ZppjERiI/AAAAAAAAAMs/hlmpo75y-CY/s1600/_011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2FZ5qfI8eeQ/Tw4ZppjERiI/AAAAAAAAAMs/hlmpo75y-CY/s400/_011.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cold Spring Depot</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-71928043322603718202012-01-11T15:12:00.000-08:002012-01-11T15:12:13.356-08:004 Point<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I remember still,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The Catholic priest Father Vernon, assistant superintendent of St Boniface, telling me that he would give me a credit for religion class so I could graduate, and that it would be best if I went to work at the granite sheds as a hook man because I wasn’t very smart.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A navy test result ,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">dimly suggested to me I might be all right later, but I didn’t it take very seriously.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I labored under this vail of self-doubt for the next ten years.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Then at 29, by chance, out of work, with family, no place to turn, I drove by a Portland Community College, and thought to myself: I am a Vet, maybe I can be trained for something, a welder or something.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A veterans counselor made himself available to me. He said, Joe, why don’t you take a introductory program, same as all college students.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I remember still,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">taking my 1<sup>st</sup> grade point 15 credit report card 4.00 to Mr. Macy, the man I worked for part time, for he was the only one I knew that would care.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I was so proud I NEVER LOOKED BACK.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-63100138287235377202012-01-11T15:08:00.000-08:002012-01-11T15:08:57.401-08:00Arriving in Portland<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I remember still:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fred’s 1962 pickup, loaded with two suitcases and four extra tires.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Two twenty-seven-year-old fathers driving up Interstate 5, leaving behind a community of four hundred in the Sierra Nevada foothills.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Heading north to the big city in 1968, hoping to get on in a paper mill or aluminum factory.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fred the father of five, dirt floors in his home,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Me father of two, Stearns County Minnesota boy, long way from home.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When we entered the edge of the city</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> THE TRAFFIC</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> THE BUILDINGS</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> THE SIGNAGE</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We froze and kept right on the freeway, across the Columbia river bridge, eyes straight ahead watching the road and traffic.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Ending up in Camas, Washington, in a small motel outside town, to calm down and absorb the experience.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This little motel still sits on a hill there, probably harboring other new immigrants to the big city, across the river.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-10093447409455456182012-01-11T15:03:00.000-08:002012-01-11T15:03:20.164-08:00Travel<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As I age I find I want to back home</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> However</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It is said you can never go home</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Because</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Travel continually alters one until they are no longer themselves.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Meriwether Lewis was so changed by travel he lost his identity, never completed his book, and slept on the ground in buckskins upon returning home.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> However</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's only by taking chances and exploring the unknown that one can expand consciousness.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I believe routine and familiarity closes minds and stifles creativity so they are more dangerous than fear of the unknown, which stops most exploration.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> But </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I do not believe travel is the only path, nor that it expands everyone. It also requires an open mind able to make observations and a curiosity to see about.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Some people would argue only through the heart can one expand the mind. I do know from my personal experiences I have found well-traveled people the most interesting. </div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-86103672690580747932012-01-11T15:00:00.000-08:002012-01-11T15:00:10.138-08:00Paul's Words<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Paul surprised me at our evening fire pit discussion.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Paul being the kindest soft spoken art professor, a most respected fixture at our stone sculpture retreat, for many years donating his time to help us be better artists. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We, all mature men and women stone sculptors, listening to Paul in the dark as he spoke.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He started, “When I first became a professor at the university there were 23 men and 1 woman on the staff. Later the women left. When I retired there were 18 women and 4 men on the art staff.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He raised his voice slightly, “Hang on and be true to your stone sculpture, you are working in something that is real. It's something you can touch and get a hold on.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">"Today's students and teachers will someday come around. All this pretentious fluff, this attitude that art needs to look like it dropped from the sky, with no human connection."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“So many years of nonsense still taught at a university level.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“What is art, if not a human effort to create beauty and stimulate emotions and the imagination.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“So you see change is slow, hang on, these teachers too in time will have enough confidence in their new role, and feel secure enough, to be honest.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I held baited breath thinking this provocative statement wound stir the emotions of some of the sculptors. Nothing came forth from the darkness around the camp fire.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I was proud that Paul spoke words he felt, and remembered what Steiner told me after speaking my mind at a gathering in Mexico were many people left the dinner party in disagreement: "YOU CAN GET ALONG ANY PLACE IN THE WORLD, JOSEPH, AS LONG AS YOU DON'T SAY WHAT YOU THINK.” </div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-38476307761533965292012-01-04T15:24:00.000-08:002017-08-03T12:08:53.783-07:00My Mom the Rose Gardener<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I live in Portland, Oregon, the Rose City. I find it hard to kill rose bushes in Portland. I am not a rose bush person, seems it took me several years to kill off a couple climbing roses in my yard. Roses grow like wild blackberries in this temperate climate.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My mom grew roses where it was a challenge and probably shouldn’t bother, that was Minnesota, land of devastating winter kill, good for lilacs and many species that like a good long dormancy, but that didn’t deter my mom, the rose gardener.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Each February, she would start paging thru the Jackson and Perkins rose catalog to select new roses, and to vote as member of the selection panel for best new rose of the year, probably dreaming of spring.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the ice broke up, a sure sign of early spring, we would all head to the lake five miles north of town, on the gravel road in dads Lafayette four-door sedan. My mom the rose Gardener would help dad build a fire in the great wood oven from wood brought in from a pile next to the outhouse.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then a wonderful thing happened, she would put loves of bread dough in those different size buttered tins she used once a week all her life, and the smell of her home made bread filled the still chilled cabin air.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then she headed to her asparagus patch next to the wood pile and picked the first and best of the year, and had them boiling on top of the stove, she then snapped the red-and-white checked table cloth over the heavy oak table, and we sat down to a treat never forgotten by me, her homemade bread, and asparagus buttered to perfection and served in a now heated knotty pine cabin, built by my dad.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Next she would head to the garden, a sandy patch of ground, surrounded the her tall lilac bushes, where strange looking burlap and soil totems stood shoulder to shoulder guarding spindly branches within, where she slowly unwrapped each one, looking for survivors of the Minnesota winter.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My mom, the spindly red headed rose Gardner, never gave up trying to do the impossible, grow roses in Minnesota. I think that’s where I got my perseverance to continue being a stone fabricator all those years when there was no stone fabrication work to do in Portland, Oregon. Thank you Mom.</div>
Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-81358467704820330092012-01-04T15:17:00.000-08:002012-01-04T15:17:02.694-08:00Times Are Changing<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> TIMES ARE CHANGING</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My Navy friend Marcelo and I had ample time to talk, logging 100,000 miles, crossing the Pacific 12 times as lowly seamen on a troop transport USS MITCHELL TAP 114. I sometime still call my military ID when asked for my social security number. The troops we transported that wore strange green berets, were let of in the Philippine Islands for some sort of training, we didn’t much understand back in 1961 and 62. He took me to his favorite bar in Yokohama, and when in Okinawa he treated me to pork fried rice and a sailors' paradise, Nomanue.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Marcelo made a great companion for a shy Stearns County boy, for he knew his way around the Pacific.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He would take me to St Judes hall, where Native Americans gathered to dance, and to his two sisters' apartments to eat and rest when we docked in our home port of San Francisco.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">San Francisco was probably a good place to get to if you were a Tlingit, raised in Juneau, Alaska, in the 50s, where the signs on business said no dogs or Indians allowed.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Marcelo confided in me, while we were on those long ocean trips, that his mother would not allow him or his three sisters and two brothers to give up, even though 23 out of 25 of his first grade classmates in their Catholic grade school quit school by the 8<sup>th</sup> grade.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">At our annual breakfast together in Portland, my home, Marcelo joyfully announced to me that he was now the elder in his family, and that his nephews and nieces consulted with him regarding all major decisions in there lives.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">While his sister Rita, a nationally famous Anthropologist, and his sister Renee, who has her art in the Smithsonian, looked at me, his sister Ramona, the Oakland A's baseball fan smiled and announced, “Only because we will not admit our age”. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Nevertheless, even though my friend Marcelo is elder by default, I told him I would brew the coffee and prepare the sandwiches if he wanted me to accompany him on the ocean voyage from Seattle to Juneau, if he decided to buy his new sport fishing boat on the mainland because, even though Marcelo may be elder by default, I KNOW THIS TLINGIT IS ONE VERY GOOD SEAMAN.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Postscript</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Even though I often times complain that my stone sculpture is not much accepted in this land where totem poles and masks is the accepted high art form, I was shocked when Marcelo's two nieces told me several years ago, that they would never travel south of Eugene, Oregon, because they felt unsafe there, in still redneck country.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-77790168562430305892012-01-04T15:07:00.000-08:002012-01-04T15:07:01.493-08:00Grandpa<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My memory of Grandpa Conrad is short and intense.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I have heard stories about this German carpenter.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Father of eight</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Intense drinker he must have been, sending his children </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">to the tavern for buckets of beer.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Probably in part, due to Grandma, found dead in the house by Dad's sister Anita much before child rearing was complete.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Five boys and three girls. Grace took the youngest Earl east, to New York. Connie also went east.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Anita, Walter, my dad, Ted, Richard, and Larry stayed in Stearns County, my birthplace, for the most part.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The one time I saw my Grandpa Jacob Conrad happened when dad took me to St Cloud,18 miles east, his birthplace, in our family car, for shopping.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We walked to a hotel building on St Germain street and stepped into a dark cavernous room and slowly walked along the long bar counter, lined with the backs of its Saturday afternoon patrons.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dad patted the back of a small man hunched over his beer at the end of the bar.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As an eight-year-old boy standing in a dark bar room filled with shadowy forms,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I became terrified as Grandpa Jacob slowly turned, his one glass eye pointing outward, asked my dad</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">WHO ARE YOU?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dad replied, I am your son Walt, and put a silver dollar on the bar as we turned and left. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">This was my one and only meeting with my Grandpa, however I assume I viewed him in his casket at the Daniel funeral home, for I do remember my uncles, dark complected men with jet black hair in dark suits, talking together. I know little about them as well.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I want my grand baby to have different memories.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Postscript</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">There may well be more information about Dad and Grandpa for I know my sister Marion has a collection of letters Dad wrote around 1920 which I have never seen.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-21893816402129705722012-01-04T15:01:00.003-08:002012-01-04T15:01:54.080-08:00Dearest MonaMy sister Ramona, what a beautiful name,<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">she was thin and beautiful to match.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Married so young, desperate probably to get away from home,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">to Dave, a neighbor, a good and honest man.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Six children came fast in those years, living in a basement house Dave built, including an underground garage, where Dave repaired everything, from cars to TV Sets.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Laundry hung on on outstretched lines strung all about the house, so many diapers, </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">BUT WOW, how good the northeastern corner of the basement smelled, with table loads of homemade bread, and her famous sticky buns which my brother Tom and I loved.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Later walls arose as Dave built above, Ramona went to work evenings. I don’t know why, no one does, at the Main Street Cafe leaving six children at home with Dave.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I almost cried, coming home from the Navy, seeing Mona peeling potatoes and chopping fries, the old fashioned way in the back kitchen of the cafe, serving schooners of beer at the counter, and cooking the greatest hamburger and fries in history most every evening, until at 40 years old,</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">she had a stroke and was left paralyzed for the rest of her life.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">SO QUICK TO CRY, SO FAST TO LAUGH , SO SAD FOR ME TO SEE</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">BEAUTIFUL RAMONA CUT DOWN BY HEREDITY SO SOON.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I was in a Montana snow storm when I got the news: Mona gone, final heart failure took this big-hearted woman.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My son and his wife have a quilt she made in the nursing home with her one good arm.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I was glad to see the stone her children put on her grave labeled</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">ROMANA LUND </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">MOTHER OF </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">JOSEPH DEBRA ROBERT PAUL NANCY AND JOHN SCHMITT</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">in Stearns County Minnesota when I go home.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-30396445300578550662011-12-14T15:00:00.001-08:002011-12-14T15:00:43.658-08:00Language Development<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">A geezer poem</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">When Oom Pa Pa from the North</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Met Cha Cha Cha from the South</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">A new word, Ooh La La, was formed.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-37800672342711924252011-12-14T14:41:00.000-08:002011-12-14T14:41:32.468-08:00You Sure Are Wobbly Grandpa<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">My brother Tom and I awoke early that Christmas morning. I was 10, he was 9, but taller then me.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We raced down the stairs to the balsam fir Christmas that my dad always perched at Wenner's Hardware store in town. He would drill holes and refit nature's work to my mom's specifications by putting branches in gaps with his brace and bit, down in the basement before setting it up in the dining room.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We found under the tree that early Christmas morning for each of us a pair of tan and black hockey skates, probably purchased at Jim's summertime bike repair, winter time new and used skate sales and sharpening shop, located in St Cloud, Minnesota, boyhood home of my dad, he long gone now, me sixty-seven.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Five AM we laced them up right under the tree, walked out the back door, then walked and slid three blocks to the back side of our grade school.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We sat on our haunches, knees outstretched, using our skates as rudders, slid down the embankment to the volunteer fire department water flooded ice rink, kept clear of snow by Clarence Schmidt, the town maintenance man.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was dark and cold that long ago Christmas morning, but Tom and I didn’t notice.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We skated away many Minnesota winter evenings on that lighted pond. Great fun, going to the warming house, a concrete block building with a wooden floor, benches all around the perimeter with a pot belly wood stove in the middle, all the walls filled with happy young skaters.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I got fairly good at racing through the tag line, and playing a rudimentary form of hockey, for the next four winters before moving on from the skating rink to 14-year-old interests, a job spotting pins at the bowling alley.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">At age 60 I took my grand baby to the heated indoor ice pavilion in Portland, were a carousel of wooden ponies danced overhead and the ice was maintained by a Zamboni.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">She soon skated off leaving me clinging to the railing, until I finally got my stride, arms and legs synchro-meshed bending low in case of a fall, and feeling good about myself as I skated around at good speed.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Grand baby skated over to me and said </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">YOU SURE ARE WOBBLY GRANDPA</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WfDDRKY-Lmk/TuklZOhrCkI/AAAAAAAAAMY/LElMmPQVUFw/s1600/IMGP0648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WfDDRKY-Lmk/TuklZOhrCkI/AAAAAAAAAMY/LElMmPQVUFw/s400/IMGP0648.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aunty, Grandma and Jewell</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6453971802595361413.post-48940456518567526482011-12-14T14:28:00.000-08:002011-12-14T14:28:05.263-08:00Sister Joan<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sweet Joan, always a smile, never a mean word, never learned or was interested in driving a car, even though she and her husband Herb raised three children while living in many parts of the country.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Didn’t need to, she filled her life with her children, cooking, sewing, crafts, and people.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Died too young of the family scourge, heart problems.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Although those last ten years, living at the lake, one quarter-mile from Herb's family farm amongst the red oak and birch, must have been heavenly.</div>Joseph Conradhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04524455415762487290noreply@blogger.com0